A Southern Story
by Changeable
Summary: Moving down South to start her journalism career writing easy, quaint little Southern stories, Daisy Meyer finds she has a lot more in store for her in the form of vampires, murder, and everything else Bon Temps has to offer. EricOC. Rating may change.
1. Spacy Daisy

**Setting**: End of Season 1, right before they find the body in Andy's car.

A Southern Story

by Changeable

**Chapter One**: _Spacy Daisy_

Downward Facing Dog. Three rounds of breath. _Breathe in, breathe out; breathe in, breathe out; breath in, and exhale slowly now as you bring one foot at a time up between your palms_. _Breathe in._ I'll never be able to do this without hearing my instructor's voice, those soothing tones like sugary late night talk-radio murmurings that make me so sleepy, in my head. But I guess it's not that bad. Yoga is supposed to be relaxing, no? It helps somewhat, when I manage not to drift off.

And right now I could really use the relaxation, which is why I'm forcing myself to do this at five thirty in the morning. This is my favorite time of day, though I'm almost never awake for it. The sun is still a bit off from the horizon, and the world outdoors is all cast in a cool blue glow. The birds are just starting to sing, and the air's not yet too hot — something which I never really took into consideration before moving down here to Louisiana. Which brings me to why I'm stressed: new town, new job, new life. I'm out on my own and in the "real world" for the first time ever, and though I don't like to admit it, I'm intimidated.

My parents would probably laugh at me. Intimidated? By a little hick town like Bon Temps? You'd think after a five-star educattion at a university like UVA, I'd recognize my superiority. You'd think I'd know I ought to be working up in DC at the _Washington Post_, or over in Atlanta at CNN. Now _that_ would be intimidating, and that's why I'm content to start small. I certainly didn't have to come all the way to Louisiana to begin my career as a journalist, but I wanted to get away, and I've always loved the South. Bon Temps was one of the smallest places on the map, and I liek the name. Good times! You know this town has to be fun. Anyway, I want everyone here to like me, and knowing they'll soon be reading my articles in the _Bon Temps Observer_ is pretty nerve-racking.

_Exhale your hands to the mat_. I still have to find a story, for one thing. _Inhale feet back into Plank Pose._ What am I going to write about? What interests these people? Oh, god, I have no idea. _And exhale your whole body down to the mat, keeping hands beside the shoulders_. I'll have to go into town today and get a feel for the locals.

I inhale and lift my upper body into Upward Facing Dog before exhaling smoothing into Downward again, then dropping down onto my knees and hopping up to my feet. My brain is suddenly on overdrive, flitting through ideas and wondering about all the people I'll meet. There's no damn way I can get yogic in this state. I roll up my mat, pick up my blackberry and jump in my car, having had to drive out to this secluded area rather than try to relax in my tiny backyard. And let me tell you about my car: I love it. It's shit, but I love it. It's an ancient Volkswagen beetle convertible, lime green, that will barely start up without a good kick. It's adorable, and I guess that says a lot about me, doesn't it? Having a cute car is more important to me than having a reliable car.

Back at home I shower and attempt to get ready for a day out, but inexplicably I spend three hours deciding on an outfit. And I tell you, I am hardly satisfied with my choice, but you can only try on so many clothes before you finally give up and thrown on a dress in exasperation. So I'm wearing this pink ruffly affair that I just know my grandparents would adore and my boyfriend (if I had one) would scrunch his nose at. It's not sexy and it's not cute, but it's "pretty" and unoffensive. I look like a sweet innocent rose. I pull my hair into a simple ponytail and stare at the mirror, stuck. Eyeliner? Not today, I decide, and smooth a soft pink shadow over my eyelids and brush on the mascara. I step back to consider myself.

I don't look bad. Certainly not perfect, but I make an okay girl-next-door … sort of. Okay, my heavy Russian features ruin it entirely — the wideness of my face and the high cheekbones are just too much! And, damn it, I meant to get my eyebrows waxed again yesterday. I sigh, defeated. I could pass as one of those not-really-beautiful-but-somehow-attractive models you see in high fashion magazines — the ones that make you go _"how did _she_ get to be a model?" —_ but as an unassuming Southern belle? I am a total failure. If only I had inherited less from my Baba and more from my German Gramps. At least I got the blonde hair from his side.

I place my hands on my hips and gaze around the room. Now what am I going to do? It's barely nine am. Hardly a decent time to meet locals. I'm not in the mood to clean this epic mess I've just made, so perhaps I'll work on the kitchen? I've only been here since yesterday, so I still have a few boxes to unload. Well, most of them. My bedroom is the only thing I've finished. But then I realize I'm hungry and there's no food in the house. Time to socialize after all.

I take a last glance in the mirror and head to the door. I stop, run back for my keys, and head off into town.

Well, I don't know where to go. Bon Temps isn't a big place, but somehow I end up driving around for two hours looking for the perfect breakfast joint before giving up and settling on the next place I see: Merlotte's. It's a quaint little bar and grill, the privately owned, down home kind of place you expect to read about in Mystery novels. Hoping the food is not all grits and rice with gravy, I park my bug and go check it out.

Inside, it's cozy. A bit dimmer than I expected. There are stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls, but besides that not a lot of decoration. All in all a clean, promising establishment. There's a sign to inform guests they may sit wherever they please, so I settle myself into a booth. There are only a few people in the bar — obviously breakfast/lunch (it's about 11:30 now) isn't the busiest hour of the day. I'm there only for a minute before a peppy blonde waitress bounds up.

"Good morning!" she beams, order-ticket and pen at the ready. "My name is Sookie and I'll be taking care of you this morning. What can I get ya?"

I glance at the menu for the first time. "Oh, um, I haven't really had a chance to look —"

"Oh, I'm sorry, darlin'! Should I give you more time?"

I smile at her. Southern people are so damn nice, I can't get over it. I love how everyone calls you by old-fashioned endearments. "It's no problem. I just want something small. And some orange juice. Is the orange juice here fresh-squeezed? I don't like concentrate." I internally cringe as soon as those words leave my mouth. God, I know just how to be a picky elitist. Learned it from the best, after all. Mom and Dad.

Sookie seems unfazed, but shrugs apologetically. "Tropicana is all we've got."

"Oh, well, that'll be all right, actually," I say, trying to redeem myself. "And for breakfast, I'll have whatever you recommend."

She nods, her ponytail bobbing in that perfect Southern Belle fashion. Hmm. I wonder how well my ponytail bobs. "Okay, so I got your orange juice and a fried egg sandwich comin' right up." She smiles and whirls around to deliver the ticket, walking with a happy skip in her step. I wonder what's got her so pleased.

I sit back and gaze out the window, a little uncertain what to do with myself now. I watch a woman at the bar for a few seconds, but she seems to take my gaze the wrong way so I turn away.

Sighing, I sit back, tapping my nails against the table — an old habit I've never been able to stop.

"Here ya go!" I nearly jump as the waitress sets down my plate. Face burning, I offer up a half-hearted smile of thanks, realizing with some embarrassment that I've spaced out again.

I expect the waitress to move off to the next table, but instead she lingers, and sensing she's waiting for something I glance up from my fried egg sandwich and Tropicana orange juice. "Um, yes?"

"You're new around here, aren't you?"

I laugh awkwardly. "Ha, do I look that out of place?"

She gives a friendly grin. "No, it's only that I know just about everyone who comes in here, and I ain't seen you before."

"Oh," I laugh again. God, I hope I don't seem hysterical. "Well, I just moved in yesterday. Sorry, I'm Daisy. Well, Marguerite. Marguerite Meyer, but Daisy. Marguerite is French for Daisy. It's after my grandmom. She wasn't French, just —" I realize I'm babbling. I swallow that sentence and move on with bravado. "You're Sookie?"

"Sookie Stackhouse," she says, nodding, politely ignoring my awkwardness. We shake hands briefly. Her handshake is strong and confident. I must be sure in the future to be better at mine. "So where you comin' from, Daisy? Your accent is very pretty."

"Virginia, and thank you," I say, taking a sip from my orange juice. Too sweet, and I can taste the coldness from the pasteurization. I resist the urge to cringe. "I prefer yours though. I'm fresh out of college. Got a job at the local newspaper here."

Sookie is staring at me. "Now why on Earth would come all the way down to Bon Temps for that?"

I shrug. "Seems like a nice place."

She snorts. "Yeah, wait 'til you hear about the murders that been happening."

Now it's my turn to stare.

"Oh!" Sookie blushes. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I just … well I think you should be prepared to hear about it. People love to gossip in this town."

I force a wan smile, but my bubble of happiness suddenly has a leak. Murders is such a small, middle-of-nowhere town? "That's all right. I guess there are bad people everywhere, huh?"

"Guess so," says Sookie, a little sadly. There's an uncomfortable pause before she announces with her previous pep, "I should get back to work."

I nod. "Of course, but maybe we can talk later? You're the first person I've really met here." I hope that doesn't sound as needy as I think it does.

But she smiles even wider. "Sure! I don't get off work 'til late, but why don't you come on by in the evenin' and I'll introduce you to everyone."

I can't keep the delighted expression off my face. I'm sure I look stupidly giddy as I nod eagerly and say, "That'd be great. I'll definitely stop in."

"Great!" With that she turns on her heel and dutifully returns to work. I finish my breakfast quite happily (Sookie made a good choice), forcing out any of those insecure little thoughts that like to flit through my mind whenever I've met someone new.

The rest of the day takes _forever_. It's spent sorting out things in the kitchen, inventorying all the small but extremely important items I didn't think to bring with me (like the ice tray! I can't believe I didn't think I'd need an ice tray). It's spent wondering what color I should paint the living room for an hour, then remembering I have this place on rent and am not allowed to "alter" anything. It's spent folding clothes. It's spent watching day time talk shows and wondering how something being filmed live at three o'clock could have vampire guests.

It was nearly four last I glanced at the clock, and now Dr. Phil is over and it's five thirty and I don't know what the hell happened. Sitting on my hand-me-down sofa, I slam my head against the armrest. _Fuck_. What was I even thinking about? Ah, vampires. Dr. Phil set me off, I guess. Back at UVA I never got to meet any or really discuss them, it being a fairly conservative school, but since they came out of the coffin I've been intrigued. They're immortal, for God's sake! How could you not be intrigued?

I don't want to dwell on what was going through my mind. Let's just say my grandmother would have a heart attack if she knew I were thinking such things about fangers. Or anyone. It was just idle day-dreaming, anyway, but people might take it the wrong way.

Damn, I've been day-dreaming way too often lately. Not only about vamps, but everything under the sun. I zone out and the world around me melts and all these different places in my head begin to bloom, and I barely even notice. I shouldn't say "lately," actually, now that I think about it. It's more like "always." Junior year of high school my circle of friends started referring to me as Spacy Daisy. I once accidentally introduced myself that way in college.

Oh, god, I don't want to think about that.

It's too early to head back to the bar. And since I sort of have to hand in _something_ by Tuesday or lose my job, I set to work at my laptop. After ten minutes I'm still just staring at a blank document.

What the hell am I going to write about?


	2. Sophisticated Marguerite

**note**: To keep you up with the timeline, this is the same night the dead body appears in Andy Bellefleur's car, but Daisy leaves for Fangtasia before that's discovered.

A Southern Story

by Changeable

**Chapter Two**: _Sophisticated Marguerite_

This can't be right. This cannot be right.

Where am I? What is this hideous plush carpet? What …

Oh. I'm on my floor.

Still confused, I push myself up to my knees. Beside me is my laptop, lying flat open and dead. I fell asleep without turning it off? I realize my arm has a few letters imprinted on it. Ugh. I fell asleep _on_ it. Well, looks like I'm not getting any work done tonight. Too bad.

It's 7:17 pm. Perfect! I can't believe my luck. Usually when I pass out from lack of sleep I sleep through everything I wanted to do that day, but I still have plenty of time to head down to Merlotte's and get to know the locals. And now I'm well-rested to boot. My internal clock did me good, for once.

The bar is much busier now, but Sookie notices me at once and bounds up to greet me. Smiles are exchanged, people are met, I forget half of their names. I'm here mostly to listen in to what interests these people. I'd like to make friends, of course, but with my deadline not far off it's all I can think of.

As it turns out, the little town Bon Temps is currently obsessed with vampires. The news about the Vermont vampire-human marriage legalization is up on the television, and it's all the talk. Apparently Sookie herself is in a vampire-human relationship. Who'd have thought?

Then it hits me. What's do people love reading about? Controversies. What's a huge controversy right now? Vampires. Oh my god. Yes! That's it! I will write a column about vampire-human relationships.

I'm about to broach this with Sookie, when I hear something. "A damn disgrace," a rather plump woman is saying. "That vampire bar so close to home, and now this. Only a matter of time before people lose their minds and legalize that abomination right here in Louisiana."

"Excuse," I cut in, leaning closer over the bar where I'm sitting. The woman is at the other end. "Did you say vampire bar?"

She nods gravely. "Fangtasia!" she huffs. "Can you believe it?"

"No, no, can't believe it," I mutter, shaking my head. On the inside I am gleeful. Vampire bar! Close to home! Why wait for Sookie to introduce me to her vampire (which she said she'd be pleased as pie to do tomorrow night) when I can go meet a whole club full of fangers right now?

I pay my tab ($2.90 for a bottle of water … ridiculous), say a quick goodbye to everyone in hearing distance, and split. Sookie tries to question me but I'm out the door before she has a chance to say a word.

After finding directions online, I contemplate what I should wear. Something cute, pretty, casual, unassuming, out-there, sexy? Hmm. Sexy is probably not a good idea. I don't want to look like I'm there for the wrong reason. Maybe a suit? I almost laugh at myself at that. To a bar? No.

Finally I settle on my favorite dress. It's a goldish color, just above the knee in length, and built in Vintage French-style, with an elasticized waist to show up the form, but a bit of extra body to make you look more curvaceous than you really are. It has a green hem around the bust, and it's decorated with classy pink and green flowers. Somehow it all comes together to appear trés sophisticated.

I add a little eyeliner for a more suitable night time look, fix my coverup, and consider adding blush but decide against it because I'm never sure whether I should apply it directly to my cheekbones or just below my cheekbones. I take my hair down and add some earrings, and pink heels.

Eh, maybe I am too sophisticated. The heels help though. Kinda funky. Okay, got my purse, got my keys, phone is charged … what am I forgetting? I feel like I'm forgetting something.

I can't think of anything, so I head off. Shreveport isn't terribly far, but once you're halfway there it's kind of too late to turn back, which is why I end up cursing like a fishwife when I remember I don't have my freaking _notepad_. What an awesome journalist I am.

At the entrance to the club, there's an intimidating blonde woman in a leather corset, checking IDs and turning people away. I swallow, but hold my head up high and march toward the back of the line, trying to look like I know what the fuck I'm doing. There's a woman in front of me in dominatrix attire and thick makeup and bite marks on the back of her neck. I nearly turn around, I feel so out of place. But I remember my story, and stick it out.

The blonde at the entrance looks me up and down, and smiles a wry little smile. "Well, aren't you sweet," she remarks. I think sarcastically. I smile and hand over my ID. She gazes at it a moment.

"22. Virginia. I knew you weren't from around here."

How can everyone tell that? "I haven't got my Louisiana license yet …"

"Why are you here?"

"Um." I didn't expect an interrogation. "I, well I just like the South, so …"

She clicks her tongue, rolls her eyes in apparent exasperation. "I mean _here_. At Fangtasia."

"Oh." I can't stop myself from turning scarlet now. "Just curiosity. I've never met a vampire before, and it's been two years so I thought … I should get on that."

She raises a cool eyebrow. "Well, now you have, sweetheart." She hands back my ID.

It takes a lot out of me to walk by her as calmly as I do.

Inside it's … kind of emo. A little disappointed, I head over to the bar for some liquid courage, because despite the décor there are clearly vamps here and the people dancing on stage are freaking me out. I'm not really sure what to order, so when the bartender looks at me expectantly I blurt out the first thing to come to mind: "Vodka. Uh, please."

"How do you want it?"

"Um … normal."

The bartender regards me with bemusement, but sets down a glass in front of me and pours the Absolut straight into it. I stare at it in fear. Why did I say vodka? God damn it. I can't back down now.

I hear a woman to my right say, "Can I get a cosmopolitan?"

Oh, damn, why didn't I order one of those instead? The bartender has turned back to me now, obviously amused, gazing at me with a "I-know-you-aren't-going-to-drink-that" expression in his eyes. I take a deep breath, straighten up, and lift my glass with a confident smile. Pumped up on bravado, I take a big gulp.

Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Burning, fire, rubbing alcohol, spilling all over my tongue and down my throat. My mouth is watering and I know there are tears in my eyes. I hold back a cough and try to grin at the bartender, but it turns out as a grimace. He barks a short laugh and moves off.

I squash down my embarrassment and throw back another gulp of vodka. It's not as bad this time. I can already feel the alcohol buzzing in my head and making my limbs feel light. I finish the rest quickly and gaze around the club, wondering how I'm going to broach my subject and with whom.

There is someone who's rather impossible not to notice, for one big reason: he is on a throne. A _throne_. Some blond, bored vampire. And there's a (clearly human) woman approaching him, orange with tan and skinny as a stick. Kind of meth-addicty in appearance. She kneels down at the throned vampire's dais (for it's not enough to have a throne, he needs to be raised above the crowd as well) and gazes in awe at him. For his part, he seems completely uninterested, and after a few seconds he kicks her away. I don't mean a light little nudge. I mean she flies across the room. All we humans in the club gape, but the vamps go on as usual.

Well, if there's anyone I should talk to about vampire-human relations, it's this guy. But after that episode, I will first need a shot.

"Bartender," I say, clapping my palm against the bar. Perhaps a little obnoxiously. "A shot of …" I try to think of something other than vodka, and the first thing that comes to mind is, unfortunately, "Whiskey." It's quite clear he can see the remorse on my face when he rolls his eyes.

"Why don't you just have a wine cooler, little girl?" he asks.

_Ouch_. I try to look indignant. "Excuse me, sir, but I know what I want, and I want a shot of Jack Daniels," I huff.

He shrugs and places the shot before me. I pick it up immediately and throw it back without hesitation, thinking this should be just like jumping in a cold pool. You don't want to test the waters and scare yourself out of it. You want to go for it all at once, without giving yourself a chance to turn back.

My mouth is watering like it does just before I have to throw up, but I set my shot glass down as calmly as possible and force another smile. My head is practically swimming. I'm way too used to beer for this stuff. Why didn't I just order a beer? For god's sake, what was I thinking?

Okay. I'm fine. I'm tipsy, that's all. The perfect condition to go talk to some kind of vampire king in a vampire bar no one knows I'm at. Truly great. I stand up, adjust my dress in what I hope is a delicate way, and stride through the crowd straight to the dais.

His gaze flickers toward me, but he looks just as disinterested as he was with the last woman. I almost blush as I realize he thinks I'm about to offer myself to him, but instead I smile cheerily and say, "Hi, I'm Dai — Marguerite Meyer. I'm a writer for the Bon Temps Observer and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?" I _was_ going to say Daisy, but it just seems so unprofessional, and young … I'm among centuries old vampires. I want to seem sophisticated.

This vampire is like the epitome of intimidation. Not looking at me, he deadpans, "Questions about what?"

"Vampire-human relations. A positive take, of course."

"Not interested," he say. It's a clear dismissal, but I'm drunk and I have a goal in mind.

"Are you some kind of vampire leader?"

"I said: not interested." His voice is low, dangerous. I feel a tickle of fright, but how can I expect to get anywhere without perseverance?

"You aren't doing much else," I say, taking an alcohol-induced step closer to the dais. "Would it really be such a waste of time to humor me?"

Unintentionally, my "sad face" slips on. This is the face I use when I want something I'm not getting. I'm no mistress of manipulation, but every girl should have a sad face, and mine is perfect. Lips turned down ever so slightly, the bottom one jutting out just a tiny bit, mouth agape, and my eyes wide and woeful, I look like a crestfallen child who's just had Christmas taken away. It's one my few prides.

If anything this only serves to amuse the vampire. His lips twitch up as he continues to watch the girating crowd. "Yes, it would be."

My pout is full force now. I can't stop it. "But it's in vampires' best interest. If I can expand on my article and write a book, and get it out to a greater audience, it could really improve the vampire image. There are people out there who only get their information from the news — nothing but talking points. I want to personalize the every day vampire to the every day human, so that we can better understand each other."

He contemplates me, for the first time sparing more than a fleeting glance in my direction. I try not to squirm under his scrutiny, but I find myself wondering _Does my hair look okay? _"Three questions," he says at last, clasping his hands leisurely. "But in return, I want a taste."

My heart plummets to my stomach. "A taste? Of … my blood?"

"What else?" He's making me feel like such an idiot.

I swallow, shift my weight. I may be drunk, but I don't know about _that_. "I don't know about that," I say aloud.

His lips twitch upward. "Afraid?"

"Yes." No point lying there. I'm sure he can hear my heart, anyway.

"A little pain's nothing to fear."

"It's not that," I say. "I just don't want to end up some kind of … pet."

"You flatter yourself."

My face burns. "Fine, a small taste."

"Sit," he commands, indicating a chair beside his own. Carefully, really really carefully, I step onto the dais. _Don't trip, don't trip, please, god, don't let me trip_. I make it up without humiliating myself, and manage to take my seat with some amount of grace.

I turn to the vampire, and notice all of a sudden that he's basically wearing sweats. Hmm. I have a feeling he might mess with me, so I ask, "First, do you promise to be truthful?"

He smirks. "That counts as question one. And yes, you have my word."

"That's not fair!"

"Two more questions," he says, holding up two fingers. His tone bars any argument.

Deflated, I think for a moment. "I need your name," I say. "For source references."

He sighs, obviously disappointed I didn't waste another question, but too disinterested to bother making me work for it. I'm feeling quite proud of myself for this clever approach, but then the name spills from his lips in two smooth syllables and my skins crawls. "Eric," he says.

Oh, god. I hate that name. Bad, bad associations with that name. "Is that with a C or a K?" I hear myself asking. "Oh, fuck, forget I asked that!"

"Too late. It's with a C."

At least it's not Erik. Okay, get that out of your head, Daisy. This is Eric with a C, and he's blond. Don't let it remind you. Move on. "Well," I begin uncomfortably, "I guess I just have one more question. Give me a second to think of a good one."

"You're rather unprepared for this, aren't you?"

"I'm prepared," I protest. "I just forgot my notepad."

"Okay, I got one," I begin after a moment. Then pause. Way to sound unprofessional. I got one? Ugh, it sounds like I'm quizzing him. "Do you, or other vampires, believe in a god?"

"We are as diverse as humans on that subject. Now that makes three." He finally looks at me. He stands and beckons for me to do that same. _Don't trip, don't trip_. I follow him out of the clubroom and into what I assume to be his office. My heart is pounding. I try to soothe it. Just a little … puncture wound. A brief sucking sensation, and he'll have had his taste. Nothing serious. And this isn't bribery, or some weird form of prostitution. It's like … a conference snack table. He answered my questions and now it's time for refreshments. Perfectly normal.

He shuts the door behind me and I look up from my feet. He is way too close.

"Ah!" I step back impulsively. He's smiling at me, mockingly. But I hadn't noticed before — he's _huge_. I don't mean just tall. He's towering. He's got the broadest shoulders I've ever been this close too, and so much muscle even he _weren't_ vampire he could probably crush me to death. He's just … big. Unbidden, a thought pops into my head, and, to my intense embarrassment, a giggle escapes me. Oh, god, real mature, Daisy. My whole body is on fire.

Eric stops smiling as he backs me against the door. "Now, what's got your blood rushing to the surface like this?" He lifts a hand, and as his cool skin lightly grazes my skin the effect is undeniably soothing.

"Nothing," I murmur, as his hand begins to travel down my neck. "Oh! Not my neck. I just want to clarify that. Make it my shoulder or somewhere I can … I can cover easily."

He laughs, and pulls my hair back.


End file.
